I Called it Mr Monk
by JellybeanPie
Summary: Sharona thinks back on working as Monk's assistant fondly realizing that maybe she really does regret her final decision to quit, though she knows it's not like she can up her roots and go back know. Angsty, but still a bit funny internal monlouge.


This is the first Monk fan fiction I've ever written. It's a one shot from Sharona's point of view looking back on her job after she quit and moved back in with her ex. Now I've never seen the episode where she actually left, so my details may be a bit off but bare with me, I tried hard to stay in character and write how Sharona would sound to make it feel more personal. Please take the time to R&R because reviews equal love and I could use some love in my life right now.

Here's the translations for the list of fears I use in the opening paragraph in case anyone was wondering:

Claustrophobia- Fear of confined spaces.

Agoraphobia- Fear of being in crowded, public places.

Misophobia - Fear of being contaminated with dirt or germs.

Verminophobia- Fear of germs.

Acrophobia- Fear of heights.

Haphephobia - Fear of being touched.

Aviatophobia- Fear of flying.

Bacteriophobia- Fear of bacteria.

Atelophobia- Fear of imperfection.

Amathophobia- Fear of dust.

I Called it Mr. Monk

Claustrophobia, agoraphobia, misophobia, verminophobia, acrophobia, haphephobia, aviatophobia, bacteriophobia, atelophobia and amathophobia didn't even begin to cover the extent of his fears. He only drank Seria Springs bottled water. The bacteria shared in shaking hands was all it took for him to need a new moist towelette to disinfect. Pillowcases were used once before they became irredeemable. He couldn't drive. He didn't have a license. Well, actually he did though it was the left turns that gave him trouble. Left and right turns. Everything he owned had a back-up. And that back-up had it's own back-up. Evenness, order and tidiness were his virtues. And he may very well have been the first person to utter that infamous cliché 'cleanliness is next to godliness'. Some called it insanity. Some called it weird. Some called it unstable and some called it crazy. I called it Mr. Monk.

Don't get me wrong, for all his hang ups he was a force to be reckoned with. The defective detective - that's what the newspapers called him. He was sort of a phenomenon. I swear he could've had his own science fiction movie if they could ever get the camera lenses spotless enough for him. He had this uncanny ability to see right through a liar. Thirty seconds in the presence of Adrian Monk was all it took to do you in, no matter how clever a killer and deceiver you thought you were.

And all my dates never stood a chance. Oh, he'd try not to burst my bubble but he found it simply impossible to let me just sit there across from a man fudging his resume to impress me, or a man who had the audacity to forget to wipe the lint off his jacket before taking me out.

If you haven't figured it out already, Adrian Monk was my boss. Lucky me, right? I frequently describe my time as his assistant as the worst job I've ever had. And strangely enough it was also the best job I've ever had. As annoying as the job was, no, as annoying as he, the man, was I always felt like I was doing something important when I worked for him. I felt like we'd become kind of partners after all the cases we solved together. I guess I shouldn't give myself so much credit, but the saying goes that 'behind every strong man is the woman that made him that way' and I'm that woman. Without me, the slightest hitch in the road would've shut him down. Literally a slight hitch in the road would do it, whether it be an uneven bump or not-so-perfectly-straight painted line or even a misplaced twig. It was my job to keep that calculating brain of his functioning properly and dole out the hand wipes.

It was scary and exhilarating all at once. I've never been put in so much danger as those few years when the two of us worked as personal consultants. I fought for my life in a dark, dank, underground tunnel with a deranged hit man at my heels. Adrian came to my rescue. I still can't quite believe he shot that gun, hit his target and missed me, but than again I can't believe a lot of things he did. The man conquered his fear of heights to cling to a moving ferriswheel trying to save me. He attacked a man trying to kill me in my cluttered, broken apartment after San Francisco's six point earthquake. I don't know what's more unbelievable; the fact that he went after that man or the fact that he was able to set foot in my apartment when it was under such disarray. Laugh at him all you want, he really is a hero. San Francisco's hero and my hero.

You can't really talk about Adrian Monk without mentioning the sad story that made him the way he is today. I'll try to do this quick - like ripping off a band aid, so here goes. Adrian's wife, beloved wife, Trudy, died. Was murdered. It was a car bombing and he still hasn't been able to crack the case. The most important case of his life and it's the only one he's been faced with that's unsolvable. He was a respected police officer once before all the tragedy and turmoil made him take a turn for the worse. The man barely left his house for a few years. He told me getting out to pick up the newspaper was an accomplishment.

This is where I first came into the picture. The Captain hired me to get Adrian out and about again. I was his nurse then. A year down the line a major politico's body guard was murdered and the mayor brought Monk back out of hiding and onto the field. He's steadily been improving ever since and I firmly believe he deserves his badge back, but that not up to me. While working cases I transitioned myself from nurse to assistant and I wanted him to call me a colleague. Though it never quite stuck with him, I always considered myself just that.

I remember the day I told him I was quitting. He looked at me with those sad, brown eyes and he scoffed in my face. He said to me, "You always say that, Sharona. And you always come back." No, Adrian, not this time. This time it was quitting for good. Moving back home to be with my ex-husband. Benji needed his father and I needed to be taken care of once, instead of being the one doing all of the taking care of.

Sometimes I regret my decision to quit. It sounded like a good idea at the time, I got my husband back and returned to being just an ordinary nurse but there are times when I turn on the TV and I hear about a case he's solved. A case he's solved without me at his side to share the glory. But she was always there - that blonde he hired. I don't even know her name. Petty. The jealousy, the animosity I feel towards her is just petty. She didn't make me go. I chose to go and I have to live with the choice.

When I regret leaving I sit and think to myself that maybe I don't know the scientific term for it, and I'm no Adrian Monk but I have a fear too. And that fear is that I'll never have a job as exciting and at the same time fully satisfying as the one I had working for him. That fear is that I'll never know a man as smart and descent as Adrian. That fear is that I missed out on something great…spectacular even, and I'll never quite put my finger on what that thing was.


End file.
